Advance, retreat, advance, retreat. It seems like all I ever do these days is advance retreat.
Do you believe everything happens for a reason?
It seems like my attempt at self publishing was doomed from the beginning. I thought it was a lesson is perseverance. I lost an editor, I lost a friend who doubled as an editor. My husband who is in the military went TDY. Then I got a vacation, I came back and my resolve had tripled. I was ready for my book to be out there!
I sat down. I took a breath. I read what I had written—and it was good. Better than I had remembered, better than I hoped.
Then I started talking to a friend, and I had a panic attack.
I never tried to shop around Pigments of My Imagination. I never sent it to an agent, I was so warn down from that I couldn’t make myself do it. I just couldn’t. My splintered shards of ego couldn’t take any more close calls. I have had so many, if you have read my previous posts you know I am a walking statistical impossibility. I have never met anyone with my kind of positive response that does not have an agent.
And that is not a good thing. I am not bragging, I am telling you it nearly made me quit for good. When I send out query letters, I don’t get a high. I mostly feel like I am going to throw up. The high comes from the full and partial requests—and then it’s like an emotional roulette. I am out of control, spinning wildly praying my number will come up. I am on the clouds until I hurdle to the ground. Do that enough times and you have writers whiplash. I was warn down, I was miserable.
I still think I will likely end up on my own. But if I don’t try to do this, I will have to live the rest of my life knowing that I didn’t. Wondering every day if it was the right choice. So I going to take my book, and I am going to spend some time trying to find an agent. Not forever. Just a little while, because I think sometimes we should listen to that voice inside our head. What is a few more weeks in the scheme of things?